Dreamworld
by Preternatural Singularity
Summary: A girl decides to stop taking her medication. She begins experiencing extremely vivid dreams of a strange forest and frightening creatures. But is it really a dream? Rated T because I tend to swear or talk about grown-up things. Eomer and others later.
1. Chapter 1: These Plains and Rivers

(A/N: Hey, kids. This is a little different, I know. I wanted to get a modern character into Middle Earth without falling into a book or getting zapped into a movie or something like that. This is only my second fanfic work, so go easy? I'm having fun writing this in a style that's a little different than what I normally do, so I hope you have fun reading it. Let me know what works and what doesn't. I apologize for any typos, I tried to get it clean.)

Master Tolkien is the sole creator of all things of or related to Middle Earth and the characters therein. I claim no rights to copyrighted materials, nor do I plan on profiting from their representation in this work of fiction.

I 

I hesitate, just for a moment, before I flush the toilet and watch the little pills disappear. I was hoping to feel free, or empowered, when they were gone, but I only feel anxious. I'm tired of living without being alive. The meds help me function, but everything is blurry. I can't write. I can't draw. Forget sex. The worst part is, I don't care. That's what bothers me the most. So, the pills have to go. If I want to be what people call a "happy girl," the pills have to go.

After a few hours, I feel better about my decision. I'm smart; I can do this.

After a few days, pulses of electricity shoot through my brain. They start in my eyes and blast to the back of my skull. These are called zaps. I'm going through withdrawals. I feel dizzy and have episodes of vertigo. I've always been private about my medication, so people just think I'm sick. If they only knew.

A month has passed. I haven't had zaps or tripped on the flat ground for weeks. Better still, I don't feel depressed. Maybe I don't even need medication any more. Maybe I'm better? I feel like I control my thoughts and actions. No night terrors, no panic attacks. I feel good.

My dreams, though, are becoming more vivid. They aren't lucid dreams. I can't take control of them, but the detail, the incredible reality I experience, it's like nothing my waking world has ever been for me. Although this dreamworld is only in my head, it feels so strangely familiar. Not like I've seen it, but like I know it. It's hard to explain. Now, all I want to do is sleep. I've promised myself that if it starts interfering with my school work, I'll go see the university psychiatrist, but so far, so good. Besides, a surplus of sleep is what the health administrators are always trying to get college kids to aim for.

I sketch a little and draw a little. Mostly, I just want to sleep. Let me sleep.

Dream One: These Plains and Rivers

I wake in the shadow of a large tree. A gentle breeze plays with loose strands of my hair and tickles my face. I smile and sit up. The sun is bright, unimpeded by clouds. The grass is impossibly lush and green, so unbridled and free compared to the meticulously clipped lawns of my university. A rolling plain sweeps out before me. I take my time studying the rock outcroppings and distant mountains. Behind me, a dense forest exhales the scent of ages. I think I hear the groaning of thick trunks swaying from time to time. Since I am dreaming, I don't find it strange that the forest feels alive. I know we're friends.

This is what I want to dream. I sleep as much as I can so that I may return to this place. Sometimes I walk in the sun-dappled woods and listen to the trees whisper to one another. I never interrupt them. They will make way for me sometimes. Good morning, they say. Good morning, I say. Lovely day. I drink from springs that I find. Cold, clear, sweet. I always feel refreshed, even in my waking world, after drinking from the springs.

But today, this dream day, when I say good morning to the trees, they tell me to be careful. I frown. Why, I ask. There are creatures looking for you, they say, at the edge of the forest. They will not enter. I know, but I am still curious. Don't go, the trees say. But I go anyway. Don't go.

When I approach the edge of the forest, I can hear voices and other noises. I hide behind one of my trees because I have never seen anyone in my forest before. I have always been the only person in my dreamworld. The forest is darker now. The trees are blocking out the sun. Maybe they are trying to protect me. I hear the whinny of horses and a commotion of creaking leather. Carefully, I peek around my tree.

"The horses will go no further," a man says. "Nor will the men." The speaker is astride a dark brown horse. I don't know anything about horses. I feel my heart beat faster. There are a dozen or so men, all similarly outfitted in dull colors of leather and rough cloth. Some have dismounted and stand closer to the forest, peering into my gloomy world. I hear some of the trees groan. Go away, they say to the men. I don't think the men can understand the trees.

"We will search all the same," another man says. "Our lord would have these rumors put to rest or proven true." He removes a plumed helmet that has tangled his shoulder-length blond hair. The sun beyond the forest is so bright that it washes out the details of his face, and I squint to try and see his features more clearly.

"But the forest, my lord," the other man says in low tones, "will not suffer our intrusion."

I am becoming extremely intrigued by these strange people inhabiting my dreamworld.

"We need not intrude," answers the one without his helmet. "The witch is seen at the forest edge. We will camp here tonight."

I frown and tilt my head. Things keep getting more interesting. I step from behind my tree and start walking towards the group of men. I'm not afraid of anything in my dreamworld. None of it is real.

A large root raises in front of my foot. I fall hard, but the soft, loamy forest floor stifles the sound. My foot has become trapped by the root. Don't go, the tree says. For the first time in my dreamworld, I panic. I yank on my foot, but it has been pulled partially into the ground. I pick up a nearby rock and start slamming it into the root, spinning it to a sharp edge as I try to hack myself free. The root tightly contracts around my foot and ankle, and the tree cries at me, in pain. I freeze, not wanting to lose my foot, feeling guilty for hurting the tree. I pant and lie down on a bed of crackling leaves, soggy leaves, green leaves. The dirt smells wet and heavy, impregnated with centuries of dead plants and rain. I close my eyes and take deep breaths of my forest.

The root trapping my foot eases away, but I don't move. I forget about the voices and horses. Surrounded by the weighty air of my forest, blanketed by a far away canopy of towering guardians, I fall asleep to the groan of the woods and trickle of streams.

When I wake up to a dim autumn morning, it takes me several moments to find my alarm and slap it into submission. The day is strange for me. Sometimes my ankle hurts in class, but I can't remember why. I can't focus on my reading assignments at home. Nothing seems important. Sullen, I wonder if I should never have stopped medicating. If depression sets in—when it sets in—I won't even be able to set a psych appointment. But I won't give into that, not this time. I open my book again and force myself to keep reading, resisting the nihilism creeping at the edge of my vision, waiting to be recognized.

It is late when I put the book down, carelessly creasing a corner to mark my place. I fall asleep effortlessly, eagerly retreating to a place without responsibility.


	2. Chapter 2: Panic in Shadow

Dream 2: Panic in Shadow

I am afraid. All around, I am enclosed in darkness. Never have I dreamed of nighttime in this place. The scraping of branches against bark, the crunching of leaves in the distance. I wonder if animals also live in my forest. Right now, it does not feel like the forest I know. I stumble through the dark, tripping on fallen saplings, becoming tangled in vines. My hands are stretched before me like a blind person though my eyes are wide open. I come against a large, rough tree and cling to it, pushing my cheek against it. Tree, I say, what is happening? The tree shudders, angry. I stumble back. What's wrong? I say. Death, it says. I turn at the sound of breaking wood. It came from some distance away, but I have never heard it here before. They are ripping, the tree says. They are killing.

I try to become still, breathing slowly, and notice that I can sense this, too. The trees at the edge of the forest are crying. The sound tightens my throat. My eyes have adjusted enough that I can walk slowly without fear. I walk toward the noise.

A cold is sifting through the trees. I shiver as I walk, hugging my arms. I tell the trees I can't see very well, and they move their roots and branches out of the way. I pause at a stream to drink, trying to ease the burning in my throat. I immediately feel better, and my vision improves. I begin to walk quickly to the forest edge. I can hear more than the cries of trees, now. There are shrill calls and coarse cries. I do not know what is causing such a disturbance, but it is hurting my forest.

I draw closer to the sounds, and I can hear voices. They are rough and angry.

"More wood, you cowards!" a voice shouts. The sound is more of a growl than speech.

"Go on, hack it all!" another voice says. "Who's afraid of a forest?" There are growls and screeches and the thunking of axes on wood. I feel sickened.

I slip through the trees and scraggly brush, walking silently with the help of the forest. I hear one tree whisper caution, another murmurs for help. I touch them as I pass. I know all of these trees.

A glow has grown in the darkness, and I know a fire has been started. I can smell it. The trees shake with fear. I am shaking, too. Besides the smell of smoke, an oily, filthy stench is permeating the air. It reminds me of locker rooms, if the lockers were next to a dump. I freeze as I spot figures moving. I am very near to the edge of the forest.

There are perhaps a dozen figures I can see, lit by a growing bonfire. Some of them are hacking at the smaller trees at the forest edge, others are throwing fresh branches on the fire. The trees around me take up a wail that wrenches at my heart. Our friends are dying. That tree being splintered, is that the tree I lied beneath yesterday? My fingers dig into hard bark as I watch. The murderers are odd, hunched creatures. Humanoid, they had two arms, two legs, but they were not men. I wondered if I was going to start having night terrors again, if this was the destruction of my mind attacking itself.

"Hear that, lads? He says he's hungry!" a creature yells. He is answered by a wave of humorless laughter that clatters through the forest.

"The only thing worth eating around here, boy, is you." the creature says. "So, shut it!" The creatures continue to grunt in amusement. I crouch and sneak forward.

"Why don't we?" another creature asks. "Why don't we eat him and be done with it?"

As I come upon the edge of the forest, I get down on my stomach and inch forward. The bonfire is about thirty feet from the forest, and it silhouettes the creatures that walk or sit in front. I marvel at the strange things my mind has conjured in my dreamworld. The creatures are all wearing what I assume to be armor, but the quality is low, and their garments are dirty rags. A few of them have nicer looking scabbards or daggers, swirled with decorative metals and embossed leather. Some have stringy hair hanging in dirty clumps. Every face I can see is grotesque, some vaguely porcine. In the light of the fire, their strange skin is mottled and dark. I have dreamed up monsters.

Flung in the midst of the dirty company is a human, a boy, from what I can tell. He is huddled with his hands tied, head hanging low.

"There's barely any meat on 'im, but he'll do," says the creature.

"Then you can tell Groner what happened to his hostage when we get back to camp," the first creature, the one who seems to be in charge, sneers. The other creature growls but backs away, grumbling. He picks up an ax and walks toward the woods, toward me. I start to inch back, curious about this story unfolding before me and not wanting to interfere. The trees call out to me in warning.

"What's this, then?" a gravelly voice says behind me. I move to stand, but a weight drops on my back, pushing me down. "A spy?"

"What you doin' over there?" the leader shouts from beside the fire.

"I think I just found dinner!" says the one whose foot has be pinned. My hands scramble over the grass. I turn my face out of the leaves and grass and grit my teeth. I want to wake up, but I don't know how. Usually, it just happens. I've never had to will myself out of my dreamworld before. I hope that it will not be too long before my alarm goes off. The foot is pressing hard on my back, and it is hard to breathe.

"One of the horsemen out here?" the leader says.

The foot holding me down shifts. "Horsewoman!" he says. A few members of the group by the fire whoop and rattle their weapons.

"Let's have a look," the leader says. I'm hauled to my feet, but my knees have gone weak. I stumble back down when I'm pushed.

"On your feet, horsewoman." I look over my shoulder at the creature shoving me to the fire. His hairless skull is marred by scars, and he is missing a chunk out of his nose. In the weak light of the fire that can reach us, I see his black eyes threaten to swallow me whole. He grins blackened teeth at me then growls. His leather and chain mail armor clinks and shakes. A monster, I think again. I can hear the trees wailing. Creatures by the fire are laughing, clanging their swords and spears together, calling for sport. Some have gone back to sinking ax heads into trees. I can hear them cry. The rest of the forest bristles and groans, but the creatures ignore it. Outside of the trees, they are safe. My forest is so very angry.

"Get moving," the creature missing part of his nose says as I stand. The trees continue their siren-like wail of anger and pain. I forget that I am dreaming. I feel a bruise on my back from the creature's booted foot. I feel roots going deep, connecting me with the forest. I smell sweat from the creature's body and see the rust-colored stains on his armor.

I hit him quickly, without thinking. I am surprised by the force with which my fist strikes the side of his jaw, how he turns, staggers, and falls. I've never hit anyone before. I am a lover of books and art, of my trees in my dreamworld. Drinking from the forest streams always made me feel more solid, stronger, maybe that was my dream's logic.

The creature crawls a few feet, disoriented, then sits up with a hand holding his face.

I notice that there is a silence hanging in the air, and I turn toward the fire. The other creatures are staring. The ones who had been sitting are now on their feet, weapons drawn. Swords and daggers and spears catch the shimmering light from the orange flames.

"Tha' scum bwoke my jaw!" says the creature beside me as he wobbles to his feet and staggers away. The group of creatures snarl, growl, and shout as one and charge. My hands go cold, and I turn to run. The creatures who had been cutting wood are behind me, cutting me off from the forest. The trees wail. My heart hammers in my chest as I spin around, looking for an escape. Not knowing what else to do, I drop to the ground and jump into the legs of the front-most attackers, bowling them over. It may have been comical if I wasn't so frightened. I knocked three to the ground who in turn knocked over two more. I stand and bolt through the hole I created in their line. I duck under an arm that flings out to catch me, but as I stand, the shaft of a spear slams into my chest and puts me down. The creatures recover their feet and are upon me in an instant. I curl up, protecting as much as I can. Blows fall on me, many feet and the butts of weapons.

I wish my alarm would take me away.

I don't remember my night terrors ever being quite like this before. The details are so sharp: the pebbles in the trampled grass, the forest and fire, the smells. Have I ever smelled things while dreaming? I've felt pain in dreams before, but the experience was always short and vague. The hard wood and heavy hilts crashing down are not dulled by a veil of dreaming. My pummeling probably doesn't last that long, but I don't remember being thrown beside the boy, now with my hands and feet tied with rough, fibrous rope.

Now things are muffled and dull. The voices are still coarse, but I can't understand them. Through the smoke, beyond the light of the fire, I can see the pinpoint of stars spinning above me, or perhaps I am the one spinning. A face appears above me. It is the boy, and he is saying something to me. He doesn't look so young from this close. He looked smaller next to the creatures. He has maturing features, looks to be in his twenties.

Exhausted and aching, I close my eyes. I recognize the shrill call of my alarm.


End file.
